Oh! Honey Honey
by Qismat Qami
Summary: AU, GrimmIchi, yaoi, tail-Pr0n. A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.
1. Don't Touch My Tail

**Warnings:** AU, yaoi, het, humor

**Pairing:** GrimmIchi, some GrimmOthers (for work mostly)

**Chapter Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.

**A/N:** Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that zie hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing zir upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

* * *

::Oh! Honey Honey::

* * *

Ah, she's going to miss the kid. Nobody else can turn so many fascinating shades of red in such a short amount of time.

"I wouldn't have to do this if you weren't such a prude, Ichigo. Who's ever heard of an incubus starving to death because naked women scare him," Yoruichi says, letting just a hint of a smirk curl at the corners of her mouth.

"It's—It's not… I'm not…" At a loss for language, the orange-haired demon gesticulates wildly, nearly knocking the black and white photographs off her office walls in an agitated backwash of demonic power. The smell of burnt persimmons fills the room.

The flush staining his cheeks shifts from cherry-red to firebird vermillion.

"You can't even handle a partially unclothed woman without getting flustered and panicky." Which she, personally, finds priceless and has tormented him with on many occasions. For a demon of lust he is just so ridiculously pure when it comes to a bit of fanservice. The purple-haired, golden-eyed woman has lost count of the number of time he's run like a blushing bat out of Hell upon catching her changing clothes.

If he stays in the human world like he is now, though, Ichigo will starve to death and fade into shadows. However, if she terminates the contract and sends him back to Hell, he'll still die. There's a war brewing down there, and he'll soon find himself on the wrong end of it if he's allowed to return. Nothing to do then. She's already promised Kisuke that she'll keep his reckless apprentice here in the human world where he'll be safe—mostly.

Slamming a blue leather-bound album down upon the marble-topped desk before her, she leans forward and smiles in a way that has him dropping into a defensive crouch, sleek leathery tail lashing angrily at the air. "It's time for some shock therapy."

"What do you mean?" Slit-pupil, brown eyes dart warily between the slim album under her coco-skinned hand and the predatory smile seated fully upon her face.

"This person is going to be your new Contractor," she purrs, flipping the album open to reveal the glossy photograph inside. The incubus's brows furrow into a deeper-than-usual-frown as he edges closer to peer inside.

"The fuck? That's a man. What's he supposed to do for me?"

"Oh ho, were you hoping for some busty, voluptuous babe? Maybe there's hope for you yet, naughty boy."

Ichigo gargles something inarticulate and probably quite offensive if the jumble of vowels and consonants had actually been arranged with any degree of coherency. He stalks away from her desk muttering demonic invectives and arranges himself as far away from her, and the album, as he can while still staying within the office. He starts a staring contest with the carpet.

"Screw you," he finally says, cutting her resentful glances in between his perusal of the floor.

"Well, I had offered." Sultry grin.

More incoherent sputters from the other end of the office.

Ah, tomato-red this time.

She can't hold back the rich, throaty laugh building up in the back of her throat. She really is going to miss bullying him like this. He's such a sweetheart beneath all the gruff; a real live tsundere type. But this is for his own good, even if he can't see that yet.

"Like you'd really do this," he says in a huff, flexing clawed toes against the plush gray carpet.

"He's already signed the binding contract, albeit unknowingly. All that's left is for me to add my seal."

The demon's eyes widen in surprise and the look of hurt that flickers there dampens her humor a bit. Hellspawn shouldn't have such expressive, emotive eyes. Everything he feels is always too clearly writ there, no matter how hard he tries to hide behind a constant frown.

He must see the sympathy in her gaze because he sharply turns his head away and glares at a faux fern in the corner like it has done him some grievous wrong. The plastic fronds sag a little.

"Everything will work out, kid. Besides, it's only temporary. He hasn't given up blood."

A small growl of feigned indifference leaves Ichigo's mouth at this pronouncement even as some of the tension leaves his hunched shoulders. The fern receives a less vitriolic regard.

"You just need to have one or two good meals and then I'll whisk you back here so fast you'll get whiplash."

"Whatever. I don't care. Glad to be rid of you, witch." He sniffs haughtily and crosses his arms tightly over his toned chest. His tail twitches. She waits patiently. He casts a furtive glance at the open album and fidgets a bit, weight shifting restlessly between each foot. "So… Why him?"

Yoruichi hums as if in thought as she delicately toys with the tiger seal carved from old jade set close at hand atop the desk. A blue-haired, blue-eyed foreigner smirks wickedly up at her from the photograph. The man wears confidence and arrogance with a predatory style that probably has women dropping their panties before they even know what's what. Yes, a good mentor for her terminally prudish little incubus.

"Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, twenty-six." A delicate pause. "Porn star."

"Wh-What?"

"Quite famous, too, if I'm not mistaken. How fortunate that he's just signed a two year contract with Las Noches Studios here in Japan. I imagine he didn't read the fine print, though." Or else he hadn't thought it serious—that part about contracting with a demon from Hell. That's all on his head now. Never underestimate the Fine Print. The devil's in the details, after all. Literally.

Ichigo turns to face her fully, incredulous and outraged, and cute as a button. Sorta like an enraged, rain-drenched kitten. "You have got to be kidding me. You're saddling me with a pervert?"

"Yes. And I hope you learn a thing or two."

"No—"

She taps the seal against the blank page opposite the photograph and watches as elaborate script bleeds out across the cream colored surface.

The contract whisks Ichigo away before he can finish speaking.

She really will miss the kid.

* * *

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, internationally renowned porn star, is just about to take a relaxing morning shit, the first run of today's paper spread over his thighs—opened to the business section, one might be surprised to find—when a body falls from the gray granite tiled ceiling and lands at his feet.

"—way in hell, you witch!" the body, or rather teenage guy, roars as he scrambles up.

Grimmjow blinks rapidly and then says the first thing that comes to mind, "Is that a fucking tail?"

* * *

Well, isn't this rainbows and goddamn sunshine?

"Don't touch my tail," Ichigo growls at the human again, showing off two full rows of sharper-than-normal teeth, and continues to pace around his Contractor. The infuriating man gives him a lopsided grin and lets his hand drop down upon the back of the couch he's sprawled across as he continues to wait for his manager on the other end of the cell phone to dig up that stupid contract Yoruichi doctored.

For having a demon nearly land on him while taking a dump, the blue-haired man has been surprisingly unfazed about the whole thing, accepting the existence of demons and witches and magic with a laconic shrug. Even when Ichigo tried to leave—only to find himself rubber-banding back into the man's chest, and getting a nose-full of his citrusy musk—the human hadn't done more than laugh like a freaking maniac. Apparently, Yoruichi has added a little something special to make sure the incubus can't escape.

Five feet. Five. Feet. _Five_.

That's how far Ichigo can go before the contract's magic flings him at Grimmjow. The stupid bastard has had a lot of fun jerking him around the spacious apartment all morning while getting ready—what kind of guy spends fifteen minutes deciding exactly which identical tight black shirt he's gonna wear?

And on another note, why does the bastard keep trying to fondle Ichigo's tail? That's just creepy as hell.

"You found it? Well?" the man demands in slightly accented Japanese to the squirrely person on the other side.

The demon perks up and risks inching closer. Grimmjow's expression vacillates between thoughtful and darkly amused as he listens to his manager. Frustrated at being kept out of the loop—and maybe if he actually hears the terms and conditions binding him to the bastard he can find a way to break it—Ichigo shuffles closer to the back of the white leather couch and the head of electric-blue hair lolling indolently against it.

He'd rather starve to death in the human world than learn anything from this—

The windows rattle in their panes and several pictures slip from their hooks, fragile glass shattering in wide, glittering arcs upon the hardwood floor, as the demon roars in surprise at having the base of his tail firmly squeezed by a large, calloused hand. Every hair on Ichigo's body stands on end and every muscle goes rigid as the hand then proceeds to jerk determinedly on his precious only tail.

"I guess it ain't a prop," Grimmjow says with a wicked, wicked smirk, releasing his captive, and narrowly dodges the blow Ichigo aims at his face. "What was that?" the human directs to the phone still in his other hand. "Nothing. Just a passing truck."

"I'll kill you. You're dead," the demon says through gritted teeth, hands protectively cupped over his violated appendage. He'll scoop out the human's soul and tear it into dripping, screaming strips. See if he won't.

Grimmjow has the balls to laugh at him. "Bring it on, bitch."

* * *

"Fuck me sideways, it is there," the blue-haired man says as his fax machine spits out the last few pages of the contract.

The hellspawn snatches the sheets away, nearly taking Grimmjow's hand off in the process with diamond-glister claws, and crouches down on the floor—tail wrapped firmly about his trim waist, and out of reach—to read it over exactly five feet away. It's rather obscenely adorable how defensive he is about the stupid thing. Makes Grimmjow want to jack on it some more. His expression had been a fucking riot, like Grimmjow had shoved his fist up the demon's ass and not diddled with his tail a bit.

"Two years? That can't be… Unless…" The orange-haired demon begins muttering under his breath, an occasional strange, liquidly resonant word passing his lips—and Grimmjow'd give his eyeteeth to know what language _that_ is because it sounds hot as hell. It's the kind of foreign tongue you'd want a lover to slide into your mouth like a piece of melting spiced chocolate, warm and slick and so good.

A moment later, he realizes that the boy is actually using it to cuss. Nice.

* * *

Ichigo stares at the impressive array of breakfast foods spread out across the counter, each one mouth-watering and perfectly prepared to suit even the harshest food critic. He frowns a bit more and shifts on the bar stool, ever mindful to keep his tail close. Never know when that pervert might strike again.

"It's not gonna bite you, ya know," the human says with wicked amusement while systematically demolishing the plates of decadent breakfast-y goodness closest to him on the other side of the counter island. "I just have to feed you, right? Then this whole demonic contract thing is done."

"I don't eat human food."

Grimmjow gives him a skeptical once over; then he grins, feral and supremely self-satisfied. "If it's virgins, then I don't know any anymore."

"I—You—! It's not like that. Not exactly. Just shut up. Stop laughing. Argh." He grinds the heels of his palms into his closed eyes, then brings them down forcefully upon the counter—narrowly missing a platter of rice omelets and a jar of lemon marmalade—and levels a cold glare at the bastard. "If it wasn't for that contract I'd kick your ass right now."

"You'd try," Grimmjow says, all teeth and coiled intensity behind an innocuous cup of black coffee.

"I'd win."

The look the human sends him nearly has Ichigo out of his seat and in a defensive crouch. It's like Ichigo just asked him for a hot, wet, dirty fuck over the counter and not threatened him with an ass kicking. What the hell his wrong with this man?

Why isn't he freaked out about all this? Ichigo is a demon. They've been bound together in a contract at the expense of Grimmjow's soul, albeit only temporarily. Is he touched in the head, or what? These aren't things humans accept blindly in this day and age. Where is that vaunted twenty-first century secularism?

"Are you strong?" the blue-haired human demands, eyes glittering, pupils dilated, breakfast entirely forgotten.

Ichigo shifts subtly upon the stool, bracing his clawed feet against the floor, lowering his tail to counterbalance any sudden movements he might be forced to make. He's only got five feet of leeway if things get crazy.

Then an all too familiar and disconcerting force flows over him, like fire-warmed honey, like raw silk over sex-flushed skin: lust. But it's not like any desire that Ichigo has encountered here in the human world. It's thick and hard and hot, and so deeply, brutally tangled with violence that he can't even really call it lust. His mouth goes dry and then floods with saliva as Grimmjow's presence settles like a solid thing upon his tongue. Musky. In his throat. Choking.

"Yeah," Ichigo says in one short breath. One of the strongest in Hell.

"Yeah," Grimmjow echoes, sounding drugged out of his mind and grinning like a madman. "Fuck, I want to see that."

Ichigo's heart rate shoots up.

Grimmjow nods to himself and then returns to eating his breakfast. The tension vibrating hungrily in the air flat-lines. Aborted.

Ichigo is left to feel ridiculous and, inexplicably, deflated.

* * *

Chapter End

Chapter Two Preview: "Orgasms. You eat orgasms?"

* * *

**After Note:** Strange things happen in your brain when you watch the "You Spin Me Round (like a record)" music video by Dead or Alive. So much hair. So much purple. Then watch "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell for dessert. Anyone else miss the 80s?

Fic title, though, comes from The Archies song "Sugar Sugar". Bubblegum pop: learn it, love it, live it. Er, maybe not the latter...


	2. Orgasms You Eat Orgasms?

**Warnings:** AU, yaoi, het, humor, demons (omfg)

**Pairing:** GrimmIchi, some GrimmOthers (for work mostly)

**Chapter Rating:** M

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.

**A/N:** Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that zie hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing zir upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

* * *

::Oh! Honey Honey::

* * *

"So… you eat sex?"

Ichigo buries his beet-red face in his knees and curses louder, hoping to drown out the blue-haired human lounging next to him on the park bench. He's going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Just as soon as he's free of this contract. Oh, yes, sweet, sweet vengeance will be his.

"Why not just fuck some bitch then? Seems simple enough."

The incubus doesn't know what's worse: Grimmjow's amusement at the whole situation, or his curiosity. Like a cat Ichigo would love to drown in that nearby fountain.

"There are conditions and stuff," the orange-haired hellspawn mutters. "I can't just go out and—and, you know."

"Fuck?"

A gargled, inarticulate stream of demonic curses blues the air and the grass beneath the bench yellows, tips blackening and crumbling to ash. Grimmjow remains unaffected, sadly. Ichigo digs his claws into his shins and lightly bangs his forehead against his kneecaps. Why does Grimmjow have to keep using those terms? Argh, it's embarrassing enough for Ichigo when using evasions and euphemisms.

"It's not the act itself, okay? It's the—last part that I need. The—uh—culmination." Smite him down. At this point Ichigo doesn't care which "him" he's referring to anymore.

"Orgasms. You eat orgasms?"

Laughter, heady, intoxicating laughter pours over him and into him, lighting nerve endings and twisting his viscera. The firebrand red in his cheeks spreads down his neck and fills is ears with the discordant throb of his own unsteady heart. Damn Yoruichi for choosing this smug bastard. He's gonna set her antique rose garden on fire the next time he sees her.

The wood-slat bench shakes with the force of Grimmjow's unleashed mirth. Ichigo gnaws on his bottom lip with sharp teeth and continues to try and brain himself on his own knees. Where is blessed unconsciousness when you need it?

"If I jerked off, could you eat that?"

Pungent smoke rises from the grass and the odor of burnt persimmons fills the air. The only sound coming from Ichigo is a string of consonants mostly composed of guttural g's and brittle n's. Small tongues of blood-black flame dance over his wintry-gold skin.

Finally a low, growling "No!" cracks through the pulsing five-foot distance between demon and human. Dead leaves and scorched bark fly through the air, pelting a couple of startled early spring picnickers some distance away. Brown eyes fever bright, tail angrily cutting the air behind him, Ichigo uncoils from his humiliated crouch and stalks before the bench in tight, furious ellipses.

"Men don't work. It has to be women. And they have to be in a—a fertile time of the month. They have to be in REM cycle and already, you know, dreaming about—about—"

"Fucking?"

The chocolate crepe Grimmjow has been slowly eating catches fire under Ichigo's immolating glare. The blue-haired man looks startled for a moment and then smirks and blows out the flames.

"Yes. All right. Fucking. Sex. Whatever. And I have to bring them to _orgasm_, so I can eat it. There, are you happy?"

Grimmjow takes a large, wolfish bite of his crepe and swallows noisily, blue eyes glued to Ichigo's pacing form like he can't quite decide between fucking and fighting him. Then he pulls out a sleek, cherry-red cell phone from the pocket of his black blazer and casually flips it open.

"Do you like blondes or brunettes? I got a couple of redheads, too. Don't know if they're ovulating, though."

"Screw you, asshole."

"Sorry, I don't have a vagina."

Ichigo throws his hands in the air and turns to stalk away—forgetting, in his rage, about certain propinquity limitations Yoruichi has set in place.

"Okaeri," Grimmjow says with a razor-blade smirk as Ichigo comes flying back to land in an untidy sprawl across his jean-clad thighs.

* * *

Demons, huh?

To be honest, Grimmjow hadn't taken that one small paragraph in the contract he'd signed with Las Noches Studios seriously. Just thought it had been some douche bag lawyer having him on in the studios' legal department. Who'd believe a clause about giving up the sovereignty of one's soul until a certain demon specified was fed? What did it even mean to feed a demon?

He casts a speculative look at the sullen orange-haired boy slouching exactly five feet away from him as they wait for the train to arrive at the platform. The man doesn't actually have any real destination to go to today, but it's amusing as hell to watch the demon try to keep up while maintaining his distance. It would be ten times better if other people could actually see the boy as well.

Demons, magic and a witch.

Well, whatever. As long as it keeps him entertained, he doesn't care what the fuck life throws at him. Truth be told, it's not all that bad having the incubus's leanly muscled body flung at him from time to time, either. Then there are those blushes.

Fuck.

They make him want to rough the teen up. Give him a bloody lip and then suck on his tongue.

All that power. He's felt it scratching across his skin twice now—every time he riles the hellspawn up. Just thinking about the destruction in the park, like a fiery tornado had briefly touched down around them, kicks up his heart rate. What would it be like to take _that_ on? Fight an honest to god demon? It'd be good, he knows, so good. He can taste it, warm and pulsing on the back of his tongue.

Fists and claws and skin and muscle and bone. Blood everywhere. Violence that's like the best sex in the world. He wants it. Wants it hard and brutal and red. The kind of red you can smell and taste and touch.

Only that'll never happen. The little shit is magically bound or something and unable to put a scratch on him. Goddamn contract. If he ever gets a hand on the bitch that cut the incubus off from his powers, he'll crush her face. Nobody takes a good fight away from him. Nobody.

"Whatever you're thinking about, stop it. It feels gross."

"Oh, you can feel that, huh?" Interesting. He lets all those nasty thoughts he's got crowding in the back of his brainpan affect his body. Porn star, yeah? Got to have the control to make the dough. "Can you feel this one, too?"

The demon shudders and scrubs his upper arms with his palms. That queer wintry-gold tail poking over the waist of the boy's low-slung green cargo pants twitches, the flexible tip quivering even when the sleek length of it settles into rigid indignation. He can still remember the feel of it from this morning, like warm, buttery soft leather wrapped around corded steel: firm and hard beneath an almost velvety sheath—most likely prehensile, as well, if his observations are correct.

"Have you ever fucked yourself with that?" he asks, pointing at the appendage in question.

The look of absolute horror that momentarily takes possession of the demon's face is absolutely priceless. "Are you deranged? You are, aren't you? My tail… What is with you and it? No, I don't want to know. Just—no." The demon winces noticeably and cuts him a cold glare. "Are you—You are thinking about that. Stop it. Don't think about it."

"I'm totally not picturing you on your knees, smooth, bare ass in the air, moaning as you fist your hard, dripping dick and fuck yourself open with the lubed end of your tail."

"Dead. So dead," the demon mutters, clamping his hands over his bright-red ears and ducking his head to hide his bright-red face.

"You didn't say you haven't."

The little old lady, gray-haired and face sunk beneath yards of wrinkles, standing next to Grimmjow gives him a wide-eyed stare and quickly hobbles away.

* * *

Even though he's a demon, Ichigo has never before felt such a powerful urge to sink his claws into warm, living flesh and pull until glistening, bloody offal plops down upon the floor with a wet smack. Not his thing.

Grimmjow is merrily changing his mind on that front. Oh, yes, he is.

"This one'll let you do her in the ass. A real freak job. Chains, whips, all that stuff."

Dead. So dead. So very, very dead.

"Ooh, you might like her," Grimmjow continues, cycling through his contact list at this hole-in-the-wall okonomiyaki restaurant. He holds up his phone to show Ichigo the picture of—

Gah! Piercings. Piercings in a place he doesn't want to think about. He peeks through his fingers. Shit. How can she sit down with all that… _there_? Why is Grimmjow using it as his contact avatar for her? Why is he showing Ichigo at all?

And the human just laughs and laughs at the faces Ichigo makes. He doesn't even seem to care that the two other customers here think he's off his rocker, since they can't exactly see Ichigo. No, even if they could see him, some foreigner laughing like that is not normal.

"I don't want your—your leftovers," the incubus says with a low growl and knocks away the hand holding the cell phone.

"What? You want me to take you to a bar and slip something in some poor girl's drink? You need her knocked out, right?"

"You wouldn't do that… would you?" Right? The predatory gleam in the porn star's blue eyes is less than reassuring. "Has to be natural sleep anyway, dipshit. Besides I couldn't do that to anyone, drugged or not. That's like rape or something. Doing things like that without consent? I just can't, okay?"

Grimmjow shrugs loosely and then, to Ichigo's horror, grabs hold of the only waiter working in the place: an acne-scarred teenager who must be the owner's son or close relative if the weak under bite they share is any indication. The kid, obviously intimidated by the wild looking foreigner accosting him, nearly drops the stack of used ingredient bowls he's carrying.

"Hey, kid, you wouldn't mind dipping your wick in this, huh?"

The teen blinks owlishly at the phone's screen for a couple seconds. Then he really does drop everything. Sauces, batter and all manner of meats and vegetables splatter upon the walkway between okonomiyaki stations.

Ichigo buries his face in his hands in mortification at being here with this maniac, albeit invisible to everyone else; Grimmjow howls with mirth like he's dying at the end of the world.

If only.

* * *

How much can Grimmjow eat? It seems like every place they've gone to in the city has eventually led them to some sort of restaurant, street vendor or lunch cart. This time it's taiyaki, and the blue-haired human takes an almost malicious delight in biting off the heads of the pancake fish.

Better question: where does it all go?

Well, besides the obvious. Yeah, totally not thinking about when they first met. Ugh.

Seriously, though, there is not an ounce of excess fat on the guy. Not that this is something Ichigo has ever wanted to know, but being forced stay in close proximity while Grimmjow showered, changed and did other skin-baring things—the less thought of the better—has given the demon a pretty good idea of the general state of the human's physique: all sleek, corded muscle under satiny skin.

He's not a binge-purge freak, and washboard abs don't just happen even with magic.

Is it because of his… job?

The job that Ichigo refuses to think overmuch on because then he'll think about the skin and the curves and the fact that the skin and curves will have to belong to a woman, naked. No matter what Yoruichi thinks, he's not actually scared of undressed women, okay? It's just embarrassing to think about anyone like that and all the steps that lead to them being in that state.

Damn, but he's going to have to face that when Grimmjow starts filming or whatever in a day. Then there's that part of the porn star's anatomy Ichigo has, thankfully, not yet been traumatized by—though there have been some close calls in the toilet and at a public urinal. Naked women and naked Grimmjow. Together. Doing things. Doing naked things.

On film.

With Ichigo there.

"The hell are you blushing about now?"

"Nothing."

Grimmjow looks thoughtful for a moment, and then a wave of lust slams into Ichigo's gut. Bastard, the orange-haired demon rages as he sways in place for a moment and scrambles wildly for equilibrium. The human has been doing that shit since the train station. Ichigo should have never told him how sensitive he is to that sort of thing.

* * *

This is—This is beyond any nightmare born in Hell.

Ichigo buries his head in his crossed arms and huddles, miserable and very much not alone, against the side of the bed—the rocking, shaking moaning bed. Cold fire burns under his skin, even as his dick throbs in time with the gasping, abandoned, feminine cries above him; and as they reach a fever pitch of exultation something inside the core of his demonhead opens, hungry, raw and wet. Connection. Shit. Inside him. He can feel it, or her or—or—or _him_.

Pouring in, molten and aching, and so bitterly sweet. His spine bows. His head falls back, mouth caught parted on a voiceless exclamation.

She's coming. She's coming.

She came.

He eats.

He's never experienced this before. It's eating right? It's tasting and licking and suckling and chewing. Flavor and texture, so rich on his starved tongue. The earthy, fleshy stink of sustenance filling his nose.

Shaking, shocked, he sucks hungrily at the fleeting surge of emotion.

* * *

Of course, she'd be a cuddler.

Grimmjow hates cuddlers.

If it wasn't for the sake of a good fight, he'd be out of here—and her—before his dick even had time to dry off. Rolling the, finally, sleeping hotel maid off his chest, Grimmjow wipes away the drool she's left behind on his left pec with her blouse and reaches out for the head of orange hair he knows to be close by.

"You're it. Need me to warm her up for you a bit?" he croons, giving the coarse orange locks a rough yank.

"Fuck off," the demon says, voice muffled behind crossed arms. A study of offended petulance.

"You're the one who needs to eat this metaphysical shit, not me." He hauls the boy's head back with his handful, and almost loses his grip in surprise. "What the fuck is wrong with your eyes?"

No longer brown, but a brilliant, literally glowing silvery-blue, the boy's eyes narrow angrily. A few pain-born tears gather in his dark lashes.

"Nothing. Okay?" The incubus jerks his head away, carelessly tearing out strands of hair that turn to fine gray ash upon Grimmjow's long fingers. Power crawls across the walls in phantom flames, bleeding away from the demon as he uncoils. Then, barely audible as he staggers to his feet, "I ate already."

Against the thick shadows of the borrowed hotel room the boy burns with silver phosphorescence, as if an evaporating mantle of light has been thrown over him. Slowly, delicately, the effulgence dissipates, and there is only the demon left in the barred illumination of the streetlight nudging its glance through the partially closed blinds.

"What did you eat?" Grimmjow asks, voice husky with more than sex-exertion.

Back still to the blue-haired man, the incubus shrugs stiffly. "Her. I ate her."

"You telling me she was asleep, asshole?" Grimmjow demands, levering himself up on an elbow.

"Don't be a moody bitch. It wasn't like that. It was—It wasn't supposed to happen. Or at least I've never heard about anything like that. Shit. I don't know." The demon scrubs a hand through his spiky hair and whips around to drill Grimmjow with a sharp glare. "She came. I ate, or I think I did. She wasn't sleeping, though, satisfied?

"Maybe Yoruichi-san knew about this," the incubus continues, more to himself than the human. "Is that why she…?" Then he goes rigid. Blood-black shadows race over the walls in an expanding spider web of anger. The sleeping woman moans as if in pain. "And you! I can't believe you—you did that!"

"If you don't eat, I don't get to fight you," Grimmjow says with a grin, licking the salt of sex off his lower lip and standing up. "Now you have, yeah?"

He can feel it, the demon's anger, the demon's power. Just like in the park and in his apartment. It feels good. It hurts, but doesn't hurt enough. More. He wants more. The little shit is holding back on him! Fucker. Mother fucking fucker.

"Fight me? You're out of your goddamn mind. I—!"

The incubus staggers suddenly, weight listing drunkenly to the side. Grimmjow's ears pop.

And not a trace of the demonic surge remains.

Just a hotel room nobody has paid for and three unauthorized occupants.

"Fuck! Where is it? That power, where'd you hide it?" He grabs hold of the front of the boy's brown shirt and hauls him in close enough to smell the burnt persimmon odor clinging to his skin. The demon takes a swing at him and it connects, only it doesn't hurt—at least it doesn't hurt him. The demon sucks in a sharp, agonized breath and curses.

Anger, deep and bile-black, slides up Grimmjow's esophagus. "If I feed you, the contract'll be fulfilled. If the contract's fulfilled, then you'd be able to fight me, hurt me. Why the fuck can't you? You've eaten. You said so, you cunt."

"I don't know. Maybe it wasn't enough. Don't think I'm not more than ready to take you down."

He releases his grip on the demon's shirt. The black mood drains away like blood from a slit wrist. A razor-blade smirk cuts open his mouth. "Not enough? Baby needs more milk?"

The maid groggily raises her dark head to look over at the naked man laughing maniacally in the center of the hotel room.

* * *

Chapter End

Chapter Three Preview: "I just saw your mom licking the neighbor's dog."

* * *

**After Note: **There has been some discussion on whether to "flesh" out Grimmjow's burgeoning tail-kink on my LJ. Should he be allowed to be pervy and kinky with Ichigo's tail (in other words, make that one thing he imagined a reality and more?), or should the author hold him back? The consensus so far has been "Do eet!" Any thoughts from those on FF . net?

* * *

**2011 FanFic Request Contest**

Come, review and win a fabulous prize: a hand-crafted fanfic written just for you! Any pairing this author has written before in the fandom, any kink, any rating, any setting. Did zie mention any kink?

**First person to get 8 points wins.** Only one review per new chapter/one-shot per person. **Pieces written/updated in 2011 only.** Once a new chapter has been posted, no more points will be awarded for reviewing previous chapters. For one-shots, only the first review you leave will count. Multiple reviews in a single one-shot will not be awarded additional points. Points do not cross-over between fandoms. There are only Bleach Points, Death Note Points, etc., and these can only be used to redeem fic requests in their respective fandoms. After a fic request is made, all points for all participants in that fandom are returned to zero and the next round begins. If the first person to reach 8 points does not wish to redeem the fic request, the next person to reach 8 points will be granted the fic request—all points will be zeroed after this, including the points of the person who won initially. No take backs after giving up a fic request. Fic requests will not be taken until the author has made the official announcement of a round's end in a chapter/fic.

Now, for the first batch of Bleach Points! A humble and most ardent thank you to those who have left their sentiments with the author.

In First Place with the first review: truckerhat52, 3 BPs.

Coming in as a close Second with the second review: FlyinGShadoW1314, 2 BPs.

And in Third Place with the third review: hitsuzen-hime, 1 BP.

The lovely and scintillating runners up: Angelchan2012 and Thunderstorm101, .5 BP/per.


	3. Your Mom Licking the Neighbor's Dog

**Warnings:** AU, yaoi, het, humor, demons (omfg)

**Pairing:** GrimmIchi, some GrimmOthers (for work mostly)

**Chapter Rating:** M

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.

* * *

**A/N:** Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that zie hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing zir upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.

**A/N2: **Can you tell this author used to primarily write dark!fics? /sigh/ This whole thing almost became one... Zie managed to haul back on the reins, but not in time. Not in time.

* * *

::Oh! Honey Honey::

* * *

A peculiar, raw feeling has taken up residence beneath Ichigo's skin, like his body has been scoured by a thousand hungry cat tongues, the felines peeling back layer after layer of dead tissue until he's all pink and shiny and new. And sensitive. Shit, he's sensitive.

The residual, sexed-up lust dripping off of Grimmjow isn't helping either. The human's lazy, honeyed contentment laps over him and twists up all those parts of him that he'd rather not have twisted up, thank you very much.

He still can't believe Grimmjow had the balls to do that: to walk up to a stranger in a hotel lobby and ask if she's ovulating, and why she didn't slap him, he'll never understand. Blushing, but intrigued, the maid had actually bought the porn star's line about losing his keycard and then let him screw her into the mattress in a room he hadn't actually paid for. Is this what Yoruichi wants him to learn?

A little shudder, a delicate blade of tantalizing sensation, slides down his spine and sends the muscles in his tail and ass clenching. Watching Grimmjow work, _feeling_ him work that woman up…

He wants more. Damn it.

There's a hole in his gut he's never noticed before; a hunger gnashing its teeth amongst his viscera he's never felt before. He has been in the human world for nearly seven months and never once realized that he's starving—until he got a taste of satisfaction, of satiation. A lick of it. A tease of it.

More. More. More.

Wants that slick, tight build up of heat in his belly. Wants that liquid, rushing heartbeat filling him up. Filling parts of him that have always been empty and needy and rapacious.

He wants seconds. Thirds. A full course meal of flesh and fucking. He craves the power ripening in the core of his demonhead, ready to burst and burn everything in his path. He shouldn't have been able to eat in the first place—not like that, not without touching and tasting and _doing_—but he has and now…

It's all Grimmjow's fault.

Face dark with mortification at the mess of his thoughts, Ichigo cuts a harsh glare at the man strolling casually in front of him, long-fingered hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans. The bastard. How can he do that like it's nothing? Shame has no meaning to him. Embarrassment, what the fuck is that?

Which one of them is the demon here?

Growling quietly to himself, Ichigo stalks his Contractor through the brightly lit evening streets. The chill of new spring feathers across his flesh in a light breath. A second shudder moves him. Briefly he wonders when he started to feel the cold.

* * *

This is weird—like really, really "I just saw your mom licking the neighbor's dog" weird.

Or Grimmjow wearing half-frame green wire glasses and watching a TV channel all about stocks and investments—that kind of weird.

With food from at least half-a-dozen different restaurants—if the blue-haired man's rapid fire phone calls are anything to go by—spread out on the coffee table and the business section of the evening paper, Grimmjow's focused gaze tracks between the black flat-screen TV and whatever he's doing on his cell phone. During the commercials he shovels in mouthfuls of this or that expensively prepared dish and takes long drinks of ice water. Not beer or wine or any sort of alcohol—water. What. The. Hell?

Ichigo, forced to sit on the same couch as the human due to the spell, does not know quite what to make of this. The human hasn't made one annoying, stupid comment since coming back to his apartment after leaving the hotel—and the thoroughly debauched and confused maid—an hour ago. Well, okay, not quite. He did tell Ichigo to shut his mouth or else he'd put something long and hard in it right before turning on the TV, and that had annoyed the demon rather a lot. But other than that, nada.

Absently rubbing the tip of his tail between his palms, Ichigo watches his Contractor with surreptitious glances. Weird.

Weird like what happened in that hotel room, which, incidentally, has still not been paid for.

The teeming, unsettling thoughts he tried to, unsuccessfully, wrestle with on that discomfiting walk back here flood to the forefront of his brain now that Grimmjow's attention has been thoroughly diverted.

He's never heard of another incubus being able to eat without participating in the act of stimulation. At least, his guardian, Urahara, never said anything like that. Not that the hat-wearing, fan-waving blond lunatic can be considered all that reliable. Still, one would think he'd tell Ichigo something vital like this before shoving him face-first and yelling obscenities into a summoning gate. Unless he doesn't know…

Ichigo peels off a loose fleck of skin from the inside of his bottom lip with his front teeth and rolls it around between his tongue and soft palate. "Not knowing" and Urahara just don't go together. That General has his claws in more secrets than there are stars in the sky. They don't call him the Puppet Master for nothing.

Ichigo taps the end of his tail against his mouth, letting the sharp edges of his teeth just barely graze over it—a habit left over from a childhood centuries gone.

That jerk is also the reason Ichigo's here in the human world in the first place. Learning experience, Ichigo's angry ass. Every demon needs to know what it's like to be contracted with a human, yeah right.

First Yoruichi's antique rose garden, then Urahara's never-ending collection of green-and-white striped hats. When he's free of Grimmjow… Burn, baby, burn!

"Keep playing with your tail like that and I'm gonna have to rape you."

Blink. Blink. "What?"

And normalcy returns with a vengeance.

* * *

Grimmjow would rather have molten treacle poured into his asshole than wake up in the morning to find someone else sharing the bed with him. It's a personal space thing. He doesn't share—anything.

That's why they call personal possessions personal, right?

This morning there's a demon in his bed. Not hyperbole. Not exaggeration. Fact.

Weirdest thing of all, he doesn't feel the urge to cold clock the guy and throw him out. He can't even excuse it as the result of an exceptionally good fuck he wants another round with. Shit. What is this? Sentimentality? Screw that with a tire iron.

Yawning and giving his nuts a good "Hello, morning!" scratch, he levers himself up into a sitting position against the wooden headboard of his king sized bed and, being a dude and all, sniffs his fingers. Manly.

He feels damn good today. Who knew falling asleep to a lullaby of "Dead. So dead. I'll kill you. Just wait. Just you wait" would prove to be so revitalizing? He cracks his neck and casts look at his unintentionally hilarious companion.

The demon remains motionless, slumbering, ever-frowning face pressed against his knees behind the wall of throw pillows—the most useless kind of pillow man has ever invented—he put up last night between them. Probably took that rape comment seriously, Grimmjow thinks with a grin just this side of deranged. What a girl, really.

With morning breath sour on his tongue, the man stretches and swings his legs off the side of the mattress. Time to start the day; the last fee day he'll have for a while once the ball starts rolling tomorrow. Screwing sluts for the camera and the money. If fighting would've offered half as good of a health insurance plan, he'd be doing that instead. Fighting, fucking and food, all a man really needs. In that order, naturally.

The startled squawk as he steps away from the bed brings a darker smile to his face. He shifts, ready. Half a second later the incubus—all hard, angled warmth, wild orange hair and furious velvet brown eyes—crashes, head-first, into his waiting arms.

"You dick!"

Good morning, Japan. God, he's gonna love his stay here.

* * *

"Stop thinking about my tail, asshole!"

"Make me."

* * *

Grimmjow sucks on the end of the straw like it's a hot, wet cock he can't wait to swallow down. Ichigo finds himself thoroughly disturbed. He will never be able to look at a mango-banana smoothie the same way ever again. Or a straw for that matter.

A cloudless spring afternoon finds them monopolizing the attention of an outdoor patio full of customers at, of all places, a Maid Café. Awkward teenage boys, no doubt here to fill their heads with fantasies that the girls working the tables actually don't think they're perverts for stepping foot inside such a place, stare at the blue-haired foreigner sprawled out on a ridiculously dainty cast-iron chair as he steals all the giggly, blushing attention of the waitresses by just existing. So far five separate girls have come by with flushed faces and coquettishly bright eyes to ask him if he needs anything.

Unknowingly, Ichigo's thoughts mirror those of the resentful male population seated about the bustling café: what on earth do they see in Grimmjow? So what if he's all sex-on-a-stick, "you know you want to jump on and rides this hard" just sitting there in his tight gray sweater and jeans with the ripped knees? Blue hair gelled into feral spikes, and bluer eyes full of smoky hunger, sure the man makes a nice picture.

But.

But.

Then he opens his mouth and drawls in that rough, post-coital voice, "You can tell when a woman's dropping an egg?" while staring at the ass of high-school-age ko-gal walking by. Grimmjow is also psychologically incapable of saying anything in a whisper in public, so the whole patio full of gawky teenagers and a few university age students hears this.

Ichigo's face will never again return to its normal color. Never. As long as Grimmjow is… Grimmjow, Ichigo will never stop blushing.

Covering his eyes with one hand, the other tapping an annoyed tattoo against the glass-top café table, the incubus answers with vitriol, "Yes, goddamn you."

Revealing that piece of info had been the only way to stop the blue-haired lunatic from asking every woman they met today whether or not she's ovulating. He'd even asked some wrinkled old hag sprinkling water on the sidewalk from a dipper just to make Ichigo _squirm_. What's worse, the old biddy had blushed bright-red, giggled and then called Grimmjow a "naughty boy."

Ugh.

"So who's juicy right now?" the blue-haired man asks, spreading his long legs out beneath the table and deliberately knocking them against Ichigo's.

"I'm not playing this game with you."

Shit. Did the man just freaking purr? Ichigo risks a glance from under his palm. Grimmjow's got that "I just fucked your sister and made her come" grin on his face: predatory and anticipating violence. Not good. Damn it.

Every muscle seizes at the sudden punch of lust. Cold breath catches in his lungs and he can't find the strength to exhale a sound. He can almost feel sweat-tacky hands dragging across his body, almost taste another's demanding invasion of his trapped, panting mouth.

"Wanna know what I just thought about, bitch?"

"I'll kill you. Do you understand? Kill you," Ichigo says, coughing and choking like he's really just had something big and implacable shoved down his throat. The bark of demented laughter his threat receives does nothing for his ego.

"The sooner I feed you, the sooner you can _try_, yeah? You know you're gagging for it. So, which one?"

Ichigo isn't the kind of demon to smother someone unawares in his or her sleep—oh, but for Grimmjow he will gladly make that exception. Oh yes. Seems like he's making a lot of exceptions for the bastard lately.

Thank all that's unholy, though: none of the girls are… ripe.

* * *

"Can you just not speak to me in public?"

"Why? You scared my words'll pop your cherry while everyone's watching?"

The only real sound issuing from Ichigo's mouth is a loose, sloppy spill of choked g's. Several passersby gasp as the glass storefront next them suddenly cracks; silvery lines spider-web across the pane from top to bottom before the whole sheet spills down across the sidewalk in a crystalline cascade of shards. With indifference Grimmjow takes a step back, letting the cataract kiss the toes of his brown balmoral boots as it passes.

"That's—That's not—What do you—?" More g's. Maybe an n or a silent h. Gripping handfuls of his riotous orange hair and tugging angrily, Ichigo manages to rediscover the capacity for intelligible language. It's a struggle.

"People can't see me, dipshit. You look like you're talking to yourself. Doesn't that bother you?" It sure as hell bothers Ichigo; he's the one who has to shadow a crazy person, after all.

Grimmjow shrugs, lips twisted up in a dangerous leer, and shoulders aside the panicking shopkeeper and a few curious onlookers. "This blue, yeah, born with it. Why should I give a fuck what people think?"

That non sequitor has the incubus blinking stupidly after the human, who saunters down the sidewalk like he hasn't just been at the epicenter of a supernatural phenomenon. Ichigo, of course, doesn't realize the change in distance soon enough and, at the five-feet mark, feels that sharp pinch in his lungs that heralds the inevitable magical jerk.

He slams into Grimmjow's broad back and the man doesn't even stagger, athletic bastard. Citrusy musk and furnace-heat fills the hellspawn's senses. Immediately he pushes away, growling demonic obscenities and rubbing at his smarting nose.

"God, that never gets old," the lunatic chortles without breaking his stride.

Ichigo stomps along, matching the blue-haired man's prowling walk. What did he mean, "born with it"? That's natural? That color, that electric, not-found-in-nature color is natural? Shit, it almost makes Ichigo want to, you know, check on the carpeting. No, no no nonononono. That is a stupid, dangerous thought. Give Grimmjow an inch like that and he'll fuck you a mile.

"Can't be. Humans can't be born with that color," he mutters out loud, tail making short jerky movements at his ankles.

"Yeah, well take it up with my DNA." Pregnant pause. "Why don't I just show you the rug?"

He wouldn't—!

"Don't you dare touch that zipper, you pervert! I'll kill you! Fuck, what are you doing? There are people watching. There are _kids_ watching!"

Crude, molasses-dark laughter fills the street. Ichigo grabs the man's arm and hauls him into a nearby alleyway. Slamming the human up against the cement wall, he winces as the action reverberates along his own spine.

"You're mad. You're a fucking psycho," he hisses, glaring up at the human. The gray, dingy cement begins to darken and warp behind Grimmjow. "Those people—"

"Fuck those people. I bet half the guys out there have jerked off while watching one of my imports; and you know what, they've probably managed to convince themselves it was the pussy onscreen that made them jizz and not my big, dripping cock," Grimmjow says, mouth slashed open on a grin that's all strong white teeth and imminent violence. "Those girls, they probably cream themselves just thinking about what I got in my pants. Why should I care what goes on their shitty little minds? I'm their goddamn king when they come."

That—

What—

Just—

How can he respond to something like that? What do you say? What do you do? What?

It's too intense. Too visceral. Shit. Fuck.

"You want it too."

Ichigo jerks back, one step, two, like he's taken a blow to the diaphragm. His cold breath wheezes out.

"The hell I do."

The man's manic laughter pours over him, saturating him to the marrow. Head thrown back, lips stretched to white teeth and red gums, Grimmjow howls his amusement. Then it cuts off. Echoing silence stuffs cotton into Ichigo's battered ears.

"You want—need to take me on, take me down, don't deny it. You need to fuck me over just like I need to fuck you over. I'll rip you open and you'll tear me apart," Grimmjow purrs, eyes lambent, pupils shot. A horrible parody of ecstasy twists his face as he closes the short distance between them. "And we won't stop, won't stop until we're dead. Shit, we'll keep going at it even if we do kick it. It'll be the best fucking thing you've ever felt."

"Shut up. Just shut up."

Ichigo grips his face, claws digging into sensitive, burning skin. Something slick and hungry resonates within the core of his demonhead, drawn towards that dripping, pulsing chain of violence Grimmjow wraps around him with his words, his voice, with the heat of his body, the odor of his skin filling up that too-small space.

Desperately, Ichigo flounders for sanity, for something to sever this connection. Panting, tail rigid, holding onto the glare cutting his features, he forces himself to stand his ground even as his hands fall away and his head tilts back. He wants…

Grimmjow settles back on his heels and smirks darkly. "But first I need to fill you up, don't I?"

Like a soap bubble, the moment pops.

Shell-shocked, furious, Ichigo follows the human back onto the street.

What the hell was that?

* * *

Chapter End

Chapter Four Preview: "Don't worry. I'm good at faking it."

* * *

**Afterword:** Thank you all very much for your too kind reviews! This author feels privileged and humbled to have earned the regard of so many wonderful and generous people.

In other news, someone might be getting a fic request soon! Here are the top three **Bleach Point **scorers thus far:

3BP for the first review. 2BP for the second review. 1BP for the third review. All others get .5BP.

**FlyinGShadoW1314**gets 3BPs for the first review bringing the point total to **5BPs**. Three more points and this unworthy author will offer you a sacrifice in the form of writing a fic request for you. Hopefully, this is a good thing?

Second place, earning .5BP for this round is **truckerhat52**, with a total of **3.5BPs**. Fighto!

Tied in third place are the fabulous **Innoke, **earning 2BPs with the second review,and **hitsuzen-hime**, earning 1BP for the third review, with a total of **2BPs** each.


	4. Good at Faking It

**Warnings:** AU, yaoi, het, humor, demons (omfg), tail porn!

**Pairing:** GrimmIchi, some GrimmOthers (for work mostly)

**Chapter Rating:** M

**Disclaimer:** Owned by Kubo Tite, et al.

**Summary:** A prudish incubus finds himself unwillingly bound to an internationally famous porn star. Things get messy. Then they get really messy.

* * *

::Oh! Honey Honey::

* * *

"So, you're Grimmjow, huh?"

Ichigo tries really, really hard to keep his gaze on the black-haired, pigtailed woman's face; but she's doing things with that sailor fuku that keeps dragging his brown eyes south. She's not wearing a bra and the room must be chilly because, wow, that tight, tight high school uniform does nothing to hide—well—anything. The pleated black skirt definitely isn't regulation length, either. Oh, loose-socks, how retro.

"Yeah," Grimmjow drawls and blatantly stares at her chest, teal-lined blue eyes darkly amused, a dangerous grin settling across his well-formed mouth.

A few of the production crew members cast curious glances at the two actors as they rush past with all manner of strange props—what the hell is that dolphin shaped thing with the knobby bumps running up and down its length? What. The. Fuck?

The woman huffs and bends down to catch Grimmjow's gaze—Ichigo squirms, cheeks blood warm, and decides to look somewhere else. Yeah. No bra. Just lots and lots of… skin.

His brown eyes come to rest on… He cocks his head to the left and, then, to the right. Where on earth are they planning to put _that_ thing during the filming? Surely there isn't an orifice in the human body that can take it… Right? Is that a vibrating silicone dick that guy in the baseball cap is fiddling with over there? What are those weird looking jelly beads for? Shit. Staring at the woman is better than being traumatized by all those twisted gadgets.

"You don't look like anything special. Why the studio bothered to bring you over… well, I just can't see it." She straightens up and tosses one inky tress over her shoulder, cold disdain twisting her pixie face. Then she smirks, venomous and full of unsheathed steel. "Don't worry. I'm good at faking it."

Ichigo's eyes snap to Grimmjow. Unease ripens in his stomach. The blue-haired man drags his gaze slowly up and down her body, grin stretching like an opening wound. Shit. Tension drags hot, sticky hands down the demon's flushed skin and sets off every single one of the warning bells in his head. He longs to reach out and clap a hand over that sinfully crude mouth and smother the words he knows are coming. Coming.

"Glad to know you're gonna be faking it when you soak my nut sack with your pussy juice."

All the air in Ichigo's lungs leaves in an explosive gasp. Trembling, barely able to stand, the orange-haired incubus sways drunkenly in place. Oh, oh shit, he can feel it, feel the twisted, perverted fantasy Grimmjow just sucker-punched him with. He gags, chokes. His muscles burn with the false memory of being trapped on his back, spine curled obscenely, knees forced down to his own shoulders as Grimmjow… as Grimmjow…

A horrible, electrifying judder moves through him. Every time the human does this the images become clearer, the sensations stronger, until his own body cannot tell the difference between reality and fantasy. It's only been a few days, what will happen in a few weeks? A year? Please, please don't let it be a year.

Ichigo recovers in time to watch the woman haul back her slender, pale hand and let it fly, pink-lacquered nails ready, at Grimmjow's face; only it never makes it because the blue-haired man catches her wrist in a grip tight enough to leave a bracelet of bruises.

"Don't start something you're not ready to die for, little girl," he says, a mad laugh coloring his words, contemptuous indifference reflected in his half-mast eyes. The woman struggles to free herself, but she might as well be trying to move a mountain. Grimmjow keeps her there, trapped like a small, helpless animal. He looks like he's wondering what sound her wrist will make when he snaps it—wondering and wanting to know.

Ichigo licks his lips. A part of him wants to know, too.

The director calls for a costume check, and Grimmjow releases her.

* * *

Grimmjow can feel the exact moment the woman stops acting, He's got her. Got her good.

Internal muscles clinch spasmodically about his hard dick in the fluttering rhythm of inevitable orgasm. She's gushing all over his balls, her cunt sounding like a piece of overripe fruit he's mashing with his meat—and he doesn't give a shit.

Doesn't care about the cameras circling the bed, the calls for position changes by the director. Doesn't care that he's gonna make this pigtailed bitch spray the cheap sheets and she's gonna _hate_ him for it.

All because of an orange-haired demon writhing five feet away on the end of the cot like he's got something hard and hot and _so fucking good_ between his spread thighs. Shit, Grimmjow knows the rhythm rocking those narrow hips, knows the source of the soundless moans spilling from his sweetly opened mouth. He's moving just like the bony slut in Grimmjow's lap, acting like he's got Grimmjow's cock drilling his ass and can't get enough of it.

He pushes his pelvis up sharply and watches from the corner of his eye as the boy jerks, shoulders falling back, mirroring the bitch as she arches against him. He gives her right nipple a twist and the demon surges upwards, tail curling about his lean torso, the tip dancing before his flushed, panting face.

Grimmjow knows what he wants and, as the incubus's head lolls to the side, brown eyes drowning in silver-blue flames and starving, he knows he's going to get it. Fuck yeah, he is.

Burying his face in the woman's neck, ignoring the sour odor of sex-sweat and makeup, he locks an arm below her heaving tits and forces two fingers into her sloppy, bruised mouth.

"Suck," Grimmjow growls, blue eyes locked upon the incubus through the screen of his damp hair.

The demon's eyes widen for a moment, tracking him through the syrupy haze of lust, and then narrow. Silver-blue fire spills over, igniting his skin and hair. Grimmjow can feel the biting cold-heat of it, can smell burnt persimmons through the loose bitch's fuck-musk. The demon tilts his head back, gaze never leaving Grimmjow, and—

Goddamn. Grimmjow's hips drive up. A deep, throbbing groan pulls from his lips. The bitch cries out around his fingers. Goddamn.

The incubus is taking his tail in like a pro, hands-free. Taking it. Taking it deep.

He doesn't have a fucking gag reflex.

Goddamn.

Grimmjow drags the woman off his dick, jerking his fingers out, and shoves her face down on the squeaking cot, sliding in again. Even as he pistons into her messy pussy, all he can hear is the dirty, wet sound of the incubus fucking his own hungry mouth with his tail. Getting it all nice and slick. Licking it. Sucking on it. Silently moaning as he pumps it in and out. Narrow hips rocking desperately, thighs spreading, back arching. Goddamn. Shit. Fuck.

He knew it. Fuck if he didn't. That boy's made for cock.

The woman arches violently beneath him, her cunt milking him like an oil-drenched fist, and spurts juice all over the sheets. The incubus freezes, tail popping free with an obscene, liquid noise, and then shudders to the rhythm of her internal contractions. The pressure in his balls snaps.

With the cameras still rolling, Grimmjow pulls out, rips off the condom, gives his python a quick jack and shoots a thick load of cream up along the length of her naked back. Money shot.

"Cut!"

Spitting out the lingering taste of her lubed up pussy onto the infirmary set's floor, he swings his legs off the metal-frame cot and stands with his spent dick hanging out of his trousers. He's hardly winded, but she looks like he punched her lungs out. Gasping, choking and cursing lowly, she manages to raise her head to toss him cold glare. A dark grin splits his face as he glances down between her trembling thighs.

"Looks like you pissed the bed," he drawls, eyeing the spreading mess of her girl-juice on the sheets. "Did you fake that?"

"You bastard," she says, voice raspy and dry, violet eyes furious and hard. "You goddamn bastard."

He laughs, sharp, predatory. She's afraid of him beneath the swagger. He almost wants to go another round, to choke her with his dick until her throat shreds. Almost.

Except he's got something better. Something he wants to fuck and fight and make bleed. Something that'll make _him_ bleed.

The demon's liquid imprecations scorch the air, literally.

* * *

"Well? Did I fill your little boy-pussy up?"

Grimmjow doesn't even flinch as a set of diamond-glister claws stops centimeters away from puncturing his eyeballs. Chest heaving with erratic breaths, Ichigo wrestles with the urge to complete the motion. He doesn't want to blind himself, but this human—this human who is less than human—he wants to tear open, to pry out those leering, violence-hungry eyes.

But the contract stops him. He can feel it, even as the residual power bubbles and pops in his veins and clouds his mind with dangerous, dangerous impulses, dancing over his too, too sensitive skin. It's still there, still holding him back. Will he never be full? Never be filled?

And the thing this _human_ made him do…

A slick, aching shudder works up his spine and down his tail. His tail—No! He won't think about that. Can't think about it. Because… Because…

_"Suck."_

"I'm going to kill you," he says—and it leaves his mouth like a provocative confession—as he drops his hand down to his side. "When this contract is over, there won't even be a body left."

Grimmjow throws back his head and laughs, a laugh full of molten, pulsing anticipation, a laugh that ricochets through the dressing room like a gunshot. "Yeah, that's it. That's fucking it. Those're the eyes I wanna see."

The human slams his fist into the off-white wall by Ichigo's head. Shoulders straining beneath the doctor costume's white lab coat, he leans in. A hot, liquid pulse dives into the hellspawn's belly, into his dick. His tail jerks. The muscles in his thighs and ass clench.

"You're gonna do it to me good, aren't ya?" the blue-haired human growls, invading Ichigo's space with more than just his body. The hellspawn can smell the woman on him, smell their sweat and fucking, and his citrusy musk, his own natural odor. The human's heat crawls over him. He can almost taste the sour-salt perspiration drying on the underside of the man's jaw.

Saliva washes over his tongue, and everything in his body clenches with such sudden, ferocious intensity that white static feathers across his vision. Fuck.

Innumerable sensations ram into him. Lust, thick and agonizing, floods his body. Lips and teeth pour over him, a tongue into him. But they aren't real: just fantasies given form upon his receptive body.

A deep, rumbling groan works out of his throat. The human's hot breath scours his face, and he's saying something, something unbelievably crude, filthy; and it has Ichigo reacting, every nerve ending flaring, every muscle desperate for motion, power riding him hard. He needs and craves and wants.

Wants reality. Wants it now. Wants what all those stupid bitches got.

Just a slight angling of his head and a single step forward…

"Found him. Found him," a thin, reedy voice chitters. "Found Kurosaki Ichigo."

Something large and shedding greasy soot pushes through the wall below the small window facing the parking lot and plops upon the floor. Several more follow. The rank odor of burned intestines fills the small dressing room.

Son of a bitch!

* * *

Chapter End

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**Afterword:** Good news: the fic is updated. Bad news: the author has now reached the end of the rough outline zie had for the first few chapters. So we all come to a hinge moment: is this story worth reading and thus worth writing—or should it be put out of its misery? If it should continue, what scenes (aside from GrimmIchi sex scenes, because sex between them will be the culmination of the fic) are people interesting in seeing? The ending has already been planned and there is dirty, dirty sexual congress in it, but the matter of getting to that point is up for consideration.

Regardless, this unworthy author would like to humbly offer up zir most profound expressions of gratitude to those most honorable of readers who have taken the moment to leave zir with a few kind words. Writing Grimmjow this way is the most incredibly draining thing the author has ever attempted to do in a fic, but your sentiments give zir the courage to put zir trembling fingers to the keyboard and the energy to continue. Thank you, truly, for your reviews.

**

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Bleach Points**

No winners yet. Author makes sad face now. Go for 8 or more, minna!

3BP for the first review. 2BP for the second review. 1BP for the third review. All others get .5BP.

The fabulous and incomparable **truckerhat52 **takes the lead again with **6.5**BPs.

Coming up as a very close and wonderful second is **FlyinGShadoW1314 **with **5.5**BPs.

Third place, but still more awesome than the author has the capacity to describe, are **hey()** and **Innoke** with **2.5**BPs each.

And because **The Spirits Sweater** seemed particularly enthusiastic about Bleach Points in general, an additional .5 of a BP has been awarded to this kind soul, bringing the total to **1**BP.


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